


As The Prophets Will It

by LyricDreamweaver



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Egg Laying, M/M, Xenobiology, canon? i don't know her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 14:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricDreamweaver/pseuds/LyricDreamweaver
Summary: Dukat makes the first move, settling close to Sisko and just staring into his eyes for a long moment. There are so many differences between them. Scales, eye colour, anatomy, positioning of the heart.But Sisko's lips are soft and he tastes like a sweet springwine and they coax each other out of their clothes, away from their factions, and into bed.





	As The Prophets Will It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shipwreckedjavert](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shipwreckedjavert/gifts).



> This is a fic disrespecting canon based on my other fic disrespecting canon based on the question "What if the same premise of Emissary's Child but, like, with Dukat?"
> 
> And I promptly screamed "dO YOU WANT THIS?" and did nothing but slog away at this in front of the TV reruns of DS9 and Voyager.

They meet for drinks, something explained as diplomacy. They both like Bajoran springwine and it's as good a place as any to start, especially since Quark's hiding some lovely vintages in that storeroom.  
"Springwine?" Sisko asks. "I never thought you were the type."  
"It's sweet," Dukat says. "Lighter than kanar. And it doesn't leave you with such a strong hangover."  
Sisko laughs.   
"Kanar, now that I've been introduced to springwine, is thicker than shuttle fuel and just as potent."  
They refill their glasses. They finish the bottle, laughing quietly between them.  
They take a few of the fine vintages back to Sisko's quarters and talk about politics, about literature, about religion, about life.  
Dukat makes the first move, settling close to Sisko and just staring into his eyes for a long moment. There are so many differences between them. Scales, eye colour, anatomy, positioning of the heart.  
But Sisko's lips are soft and he tastes like a sweet springwine and they coax each other out of their clothes, away from their factions, and into bed.

* * *

Dukat wakes with a splitting headache, growing sense of shame, and curiosity at how his chest-plate ended up that far from the bed. He dresses quietly, never one to overstay his welcome when he's aching for Damar's hangover cure and some rest on his own ship.  
When he leaves, Sisko's just beginning to stir, reaching out a hand to the empty side of the bed.

* * *

"You smell like human," Damar notes, sipping the air.   
"You smell like kanar."  
Damar raises a brow ridge. "Funny you should say that. I haven't had a drop in weeks."  
Damar goes back to working on his hangover cure, something potent and foul. Protein powder and zabu milk and Hebetian deities only know what else. He mixes it with a spoon, simply watching the creation. At one point, he leaves the spoon upright in the centre, the silverware stock-still in the elixir.  
He sets the glass in front of Dukat and orders, "Drink."  
Dukat does, stifling a gag. But once the glass is empty, it seems to have worked. Damar nods wisely.  
"That means its working," Damar says about Dukat's deep purple, nauseated flush. "Try not to be sick on everything."  
Dukat nods and it takes a long moment before he can open his mouth without feeling the need to vomit. "I'll try."  
Damar pats Dukat's shoulder and gets back to work, back to the bridge.

* * *

He notices the changes only when they stop him from working.   
He directs coordinates to their next supply drop, some animals for a farming colony and he can't help but think about how insulating the hay would be.  
"Sir?"  
"Damar," Dukat says, jolted from his thoughts.  
"I was asking if we should increase to warp, Sir." Damar looks at him with concern.   
"Yes. Decidedly. Go to warp."  
Damar raises a brow ridge but nods without complaint. They increase speed and the bridge becomes quiet.   
Unconsciously, Dukat rests one hand on his lower abdomen, right where the harsh lines of the chest-plate give way to blade-resistant fabric.  
"Sir?"  
"Damar."  
"Have you considered going to the infirmary? You seem . . . ill."  
"Damar. I thank you terribly for your concern, but I am fine."  
And they leave that at that.  
The nausea is another cause for concern. They're worse than being drunk, worse than being hungover, even. The bouts make the room spin until Dukat thinks he'll collapse. It takes all his willpower to simply close his eyes, breathe deep, and power through it.   
"There's something wrong," Damar tells him as they inspect their cargo, crates of fabric this time. "Anyone could take advantage of your current . . . affliction."  
"Damar, I assure you that anyone who tries to start a mutiny on my ship will be dealt with accordingly." Dukat tilts his head up, a show of power and authority. "Do I make myself clear?"  
"As dilithium crystals, Sir."  
Dukat narrows his eyes at Damar. "This affliction will pass and it will be as though nothing has happened."  
Damar nods.   
"And if anyone questions my leadership, I'll make sure they're put on duty to scrub the cargo hold after our next trip to one of those quaint colonies."  
And that's enough of a threat to make Damar cringe.

* * *

Dukat notices he’s become more lethargic too.   
More often than not, he's late to relieve the night crew. His alarm becomes a thing of revulsion and hatred instead of a mark of pride. He hits snooze more often than he'd care to admit and he'd like nothing more than naps mid-shift, warm and safe in his quarters.  
With his cut of the payouts from the cargo runs, Dukat's invested in a rather thick and ostentatious quilt, a treasure in its own right, perfect for nesting.  
And he doesn't start showing, not with the deep colours of his uniform. But he stops imposing the Cardassian military uniforms for reasons he excuses. They're a cargo ship, after all, civilians more than military.  
Damar prefers the military uniform, though, always prim and proper.  
"I know why you're doing this," Damar says without looking away from his work.   
"How observant of you, Corat."  
And that's permission enough to speak freely.  
"Will you go to the infirmary if I go with you?"  
"How do you know I've been avoiding it. Perhaps I've already been."  
"Because, sir," Damar says, "if you had already been, Utan would have told half the ship by now. There's rumours, you know."  
"I do know." Dukat raises his head just so. "What makes you think you can convince Utan to keep quiet."  
"I'm bigger than him and could break his spine in two if he breathed a word of your condition."  
And Dukat goes, if only because he trusts Damar to keep the men in line more than he trusts himself.

* * *

Medical Officer Utan is a gaunt fellow with sharp eyes and ears for gossip. He's not allowed to disclose sensitive information, but that doesn't stop it from falling into the hands of the crew.   
Damar folds his arms, head tilted up while Utan works, his scans focused on Dukat's lower abdomen.  
"I suppose congratulations are in order," Utan says. "Two, from what I can tell. And they're putting on shells slower, but I doubt there's any cause for concern, Sir."  
Dukat sighs.   
"Is something wrong?" Utan asks. "Have they been making you ill? I must ask, for medical history, who the other parent is."  
"It's nothing to be worried about," Damar cuts in, striding across the sickbay to Dukat's side. "We were worried about Dukat's health more than charting a pedigree."  
"I see." And Utan's eyes light up in a way that says he's got quite a juicy morsel of gossip. "Well, I suppose the two of you have it handled quite well, considering."  
"We do," Damar assures him, helping Dukat up. "Thank you for your time, doctor."  
"Anytime, gentlemen." Utan makes some notes. "Let me know when he's laying. I would hate to miss it."  
It's not until they're on the lift that Dukat hisses, pacing like a trapped animal back to the bridge.  
"He thinks they're mine," Damar explains coolly.  
Dukat pauses, looking over at him.   
Damar can't help but stare at Dukat's abdomen, imagining the eggs developing there. "They're the humans, aren't they?"  
Dukat nods. "They couldn't be yours."  
Damar crosses his arms, quiet in thought. It's soothing to Dukat, the familiarity, not needing to converse heavily with Damar.   
"You should ask him to take responsibility," he says quietly.  
Dukat raises a brow ridge. "And have them raised on Federation propaganda?"  
"At least they'd be claimed, have some semblance of a future within the Federation."  
Dukat realizes, rather guilty about it, that he's never thought about the hatchlings' future. To grow up on a cargo ship is nothing impressive and, with their heritage, they'd only be doomed to a life of disgrace. One hand goes to his abdomen, as if to protect them from some unseen threat.  
"You should send a message to him," Damar says. "He deserves to know."

* * *

Damar notices all the signs. He's silent in his helping. A set of larger clothes, nutritional supplements, even working with Dukat's shifts, eyes trained on his superior, watching him like a riding hound watches its rider.  
"Permission to speak freely, Sir?" Damar asks, not looking away from his navigational console.  
Dukat nods. "Corat."  
"You seem to be . . . fatigued," Damar says. He looks over and they share a knowing look for a moment before Damar turns back to his console. "I wonder if you are overworking yourself, placing yourself under unnecessary stresses, Sir."  
"I might be fatigues, but that is the nature of war," Dukat says. "Everything I do, I do for Cardassia, never for myself."  
"I wonder, sir, if taking care of yourself would be a better way to ensure your care-taking of Cardassia." He pauses. "I mean no disrespect."  
"None taken." Dukat watches Damar for a moment. "I assure you, Corat, I can hide my fatigue well."  
Damar nods. "Of course, sir."  
"Continue on our course. Increase speed."  
"Yes, sir."  
And while Damar is discouraged, he doesn't stop trying. He'll force Dukat to rest, eyes full of concern. At this vital moment in Cardassia's long history, she'll need scientists and soldiers in equal measure. Every life, even those yet to be had, is important.   
Damar justifies his concern as one of duty. Should Dukat take ill, he'll promote Damar, trusting him to take command and avoid saying anything too incriminating. But the idea of taking command like this is . . . it unsettles him.   
And they're light years from any medical facilities that would properly tend to Dukat's fatigue.  
So Damar urges him to eat more, taking tips from the times his wife has exhibited the same signs, brings him nutritional supplements.  
"You need to," he'll say softly. "For Cardassia."  
And then Dukat seems to understand and obeys Damar’s makeshift doctor’s orders.

* * *

Word gets around the cargo ship. People look at Damar as though he's done something worthy of offense, simply by being concerned about their captain. He doesn't acknowledge them, doesn't confirm the suspicions. If anything, he places a bit of distance between him and Dukat, every worried motion masked with physical space.  
But he doesn't come out and deny the rumours either and that makes Dukat a bit happier.  
One night, as he's nodding off, reading reports from the past few weeks, crew logs, cargo manifests. The door chimes.  
"Come in," Dukat says.  
Damar steps inside, looking around as though he's being watched by something that has more sway than Dukat himself.  
"You look on edge," Dukat notes.  
"I have something to present to you." Damar holds out a small figure, carved of gold and with a sapphire set in the _chufa,_ in each eye, made to hold incense.   
"You didn't," Dukat says.   
And he's suddenly worried.   
They might not be Klingons about honour and status, but this would bring a certain level of shame on Damar. To accept this gift would be accepting Damar as a godparent to the unhatched younglings. The disgrace of hybrids conceived outside of an official bond looks bad on Dukat but to try and claim them as family would ruin Damar's career.  
"I can't."  
Damar nods. "I understand."  
"I'll contact the human tomorrow to let him know."  
"And if he claims them?"  
"We'll be bickering about Federation propaganda and Cardassian traditions for a long time."  
"Skrain."  
And that has Dukat's attention.   
"Keep the altar anyway. No one has to know, but I would feel better if you had some figure of protection."  
"I never took you for a religious man, Corat."  
"I'm not," Damar answers. And he's gone as quickly as he'd come.  
Dukat keeps the figure tucked away in his quarters, just hidden enough in a corner to avoid any awkward questions or knowing glances. Not that he invites people into his quarters often any more.   
As he drifts off to sleep, he mentally prepares each lie and excuse about the miniature altar, each deflecting suspicion from Damar.

* * *

They're set to make a supply run of medical supplies and engineering parts to Terok Nor, Deep Space Nine.   
It keeps Dukat worried, knowing the other parent of this clutch is waiting to see him with scepticism and warily opened arms.   
As the days pass, he becomes increasingly lethargic and delegates more commands to Damar. Though worried, Damar understands and everything runs smoothly.   
He comes to see Dukat at least once a night, making sure he's eating, taking supplements in preparation for the hatchlings, and reads him every single report, every log he makes while in command.  
"Will you want Utan?" Damar asks, watching Dukat's lower abdomen. "He can-"  
"No," Dukat hisses. "I don't want that vole anywhere near us."  
Damar nods. "Do you want to be alone?"  
"Yes."  
Damar gets up, leaving Dukat for the night.

* * *

Damar checks in before his shift, entering Dukat's quarters carefully.  
"Damar?"  
"It's me."  
"Come see the eggs."   
Damar considers it an honour to be allowed in. The eggs are, as eggs go, perfect. No cracks in the shells, no half-formed shells. Sipping the air, it smells only of newly laid eggs, warm and alive.   
"They're . . . healthy."  
"They are," Dukat purrs, proud of his clutch.  
"Are you warm enough?" Damar asks. "Is it humid enough?"  
Dukat laughs, just softly. "We're alright, Damar. How long do we have until we reach the station."  
"A few weeks. Perhaps less." Damar watches Dukat with his clutch, happy and proud, though exhausted. "Are you excited to see him?"  
"I am now."  
"Did he send you another communication?"  
"He did. He wants to see them."  
Damar nods. "Then I'll see if we can't hurry. A father deserves to see his children."

* * *

Dukat is reluctant to leave his nest, especially with two eggs that need to be kept warm, turned and tucked in occasionally.   
So Damar leads the human captain through the ship, Kira trailing after Sisko as if she anticipates some trick.  
When they reach Dukat's quarters, Damar takes Kira gently by the hand. "Not you. You stay out here."  
"Why can't I go in with him?"  
"Because," Damar explains, "Dukat is very protective of his clutch. It's advisable to stay out of his quarters."  
"You're saying he'll maim me."  
"He might. He might maim me, or the human, if he displeases Dukat."  
"I never understood how Cardassians could be so violent," Kira says, watching the door to Dukat's quarters close.   
"Try having children," Damar says.  
Kira raises a brow, as though she doesn't quite understand. But she smiles. That makes Damar smile, eases the tension on his shoulders that's been building up for a while.

* * *

Dukat moving into Sisko's quarters raises some brows and eye ridges.   
Quark starts a new betting pool on how long it'll take for the eggs to hatch, whether or not Sisko and Dukat married, if not, ow long it'll take for them to get engaged, then how long it'll take for them to actually get married, whether the kids will become Starfleet officers or member of the Cardassian militia.   
Damar, ever wise, places a few strips on the eggs hatching after about four months (knowing how long it takes for the hybrids to develop) and another few bars on "not married." He doesn't want to place any bets on how long it'll take for there to be and engagement, partly because he doesn't want to think about Dukat settling for a human Captain, even if he is Emissary of the Prophets.  
He finishes his glass of springwine, finding it weak and saccharine to his tastes, and heads back to the cargo ship.   
Dukat's personal quarters have been cleared for Damar's use as captain of the ship.  
Tucked away in one of the corners, he finds the altar, carved from gold. It's clean, if a little dusty.   
Which means there's never been incense burned on it.  
Damar shakes his head, setting the altar on the coffee table.

* * *

Sisko acclimates to having a Cardassian around pretty easily, all things considered.   
He listens to Dukat's needs, bringing him plenty of blankets to nest with, though the quilt has become something the Cardassian is reluctant to part with.  
He makes sure Dukat eats. Sisko worries, in the few times he misses a break for a meal, whether his mate's eating properly. He consults Julian, who consults Garak.   
"Benjamin." Dukat's voice is a low purr.   
"I'm here, Skrain."   
"I think they missed you."  
Benjamin smiles, stepping into their bedroom. "You can tell?"  
"They're getting close to hatching," Dukat explains. His fingers trace one of the shells, the smoothness and the mottlings of red and sandy browns.   
"I think I'm excited to see them."  
"Even if they bite and cry?" Dukat asks.  
"Even if they bite." Sisko watches the eggs in the nest. "And soothe their cries."  
"If they're anything like Ziyal, they'll be shedding constantly."  
"And we'll be prepared."  
Dukat smiles knowingly at the human. “No one’s ever really prepared for hatchlings.”

* * *

When they hatch, Sisko leaves his office to be there. It's been a long while since he's felt this amount of fear and excitement.   
When he gets there, Dukat seems surprised at his mate being out of breath.   
"You didn't need to rush," Dukat says. "Hatching tends to take all day."  
"Then I'm taking the day off. I can afford to."  
Dukat smiles, beckoning Sisko closer. As he draws near, he can see a single split along the side of one shell, grey-brown moving within. It's hard to connect this small motion of something inside the shell to what will grow into their children.   
The one he can see split has the more energetic of the two hatchlings. That one, which Dukat's already purred some names at, breaks the whole side out, rolling the shell and toppling over, rolling out of the egg sticky and making a soft series of coughs.  
"A daughter," Dukat says softly, proud.  
Sisko watches the second egg, focusing and willing the other hatchling to be as enthusiastic. But this one is slower, taking time between breaking the shell, as if uncertain about leaving the comfort of their home.   
He reaches in, intent on helping their second hatchling, when Dukat swats his hand away.  
"Do not interrupt the process of hatching, Benjamin," Dukat warns. "Each must earn their place."  
And Benjamin nods, but he does worry.   
Slowly, lethargically, the second hatchling breaks out of the shell properly and making the same small coughs.  
"A son," Dukat says quietly.   
Sisko takes their son, holding him close, keeping him warm. "Two hatchlings."  
"I suppose we'll need to prepare for her to go to a good university. Perhaps she'll be an artist."  
Sisko's struck by how much the hatchlings look like Ziyal. Their Cardassian features are lessened, their skin a mix of brown and grey. But they have no ridges, no Bajoran features at all, just human plainness.  
"What about our son?"  
"Perhaps a Starfleet officer," Dukat suggests.  
Sisko smiles at the thought of his son being a Starfleet officer, perhaps a Captain or Admiral in his own right.

**Author's Note:**

> Quick question: If you write a fic about the Will of the Prophets does that make you an honorary Prophet?


End file.
